This was supposed to be posted over two weeks ago on the 27th, but because my parents live in the godforsaken wilderness that is Maine, their DSL is cursed and cut out the moment I tried to post. Luckily, WordPress was prepared for such an occasion, and saved most of the post (the rest is safely saved on my iBook, which has lain dormant since she was replaced by the PowerBook. One of these days I’ll move all the files over…).

So pretend that it’s still Memorial Day weekend when you read this, and I’m curled up on the bed in what used to be my room but is now my mother’s “I bought these bags of things at Goodwill and intend to sell them on Ebay or give them as gifts” room. Yes, she needs a whole room for this, not just a closet. Don’t ask, because I really don’t understand it myself.

It occurred to me last night that I really like the term “protected left”. It may be my favorite driving-related term. Driving is dangerous, and kinda scary when you get down to it. No matter how safe a driver you are, there’s always someone out there you can’t predict, like those motorcyclists who drive between lanes; since they fit, the rules of the road obviously don’t apply to them. Or the cars who decide to weave between lanes of busy traffic without signaling. “Protected left” is like a benevolent force that says “We know driving is particularly bad for you left-turners, so we’re going to give you some extra padding, some extra peace-of-mind.”

I also discovered that sometimes I actually like busy traffic. It’s hard to be anywhere but completely in the “now” when I’m driving in heavy traffic; too many things outside to concentrate on. It’s a wonderful feeling to not have worries, except in the very back of my mind, for that time, and to just be me. I actually really enjoyed my drive last night, at least the first half of it, until I started getting tired and blurry-eyed. A full day of work followed by 4 hours of driving isn’t much fun, in the end.

But when I’m driving home from Hartford or Springfield, the heavy traffic on route 91 is a sign of not-homeness, and I look forward to the calm, quiet further north after all the traffic has died down, once you pass Easthampton and Holyoke. It means home is closeby, and all the people and things and places I love. It means a return to the slow pace of life I like. It’s the same reason I like driving on Daniel Shay’s highway, a long, winding stretch of highway borded by forests and stone walls and a million different dirt roads called “Cooleyville Road” (I have no idea how the police or fire departments keep them all straight, because they definitely are different roads). The traffic is minimal, and even though it’s not quite near where I live, it always feels like a guardian to me, greeting me on my way back to the Valley, or wishing me well on my way out of it. (Also, it always reminds me of a comment Jon made once - someone rolling a small katamari there would be screwed, because it’s nothing but tall straight trees, and cars. You’d need to at least be 6 meters to even roll up the cars. And the trees? Forget it.)